Rock and a Hard Place
by Jaclyn
Summary: Actively taking care of her would be a gesture too sweet for their relationship. [Wes & Lilah.]


  
**Rock and a Hard Place**  
by Jaclyn // musicnotej@aol.com  
11.20.03  
  
Disclaimer: Whedon's, not mine.  
  
Should this be R for language? The nuances of the rating system elude me...  
  
A/N: This is maybe a little...random.  
  
*  
  
"My head feels like there's a rock the size of a small brain rolling around, bashing my current brain," Lilah murmurs distantly. "S'altogether unpleasant."   
  
"Yes, I imagine it would be." Wesley peels the blanket away from her. "But Lilah, I need to go to work. Now. My people are expecting me across town in twenty minutes." When she doesn't move, he swipes the blanket completely. "Get out of the damn bed!"   
  
She growls and slaps at him blindly, careful not to move her head. "Why? Who the hell cares if I sleep here a little longer? Go to work, I won't bother you; I'll be fucking unconscious."   
  
"I'm not leaving you here alone," he says petulantly, but even through the angry pain of her headache, she can sense him break a little bit.   
  
"Wesley. Do you honestly think I haven't gone through everything in your apartment by now? Not only is there nothing left to find, but there's nothing here I need. Except the bed!"   
  
"I don't know: You seem pretty awake by now, Lilah."   
  
"Talking doesn't take a lot of effort for me," she huffs. "You moron. Driving home with a headache too big for my _head_-- does."   
  
"I'll drive you home then."   
  
"Actively taking care of the evil lawyer bitch? That would be a gesture too sweet for our relationship. Just go to work, Wes, I won't ransack anything. Honestly, I don't think I'll be able to."   
  
He hesitates. "Fine." But before he can stand up, Lilah's eyes crack open.   
  
"Thanks."   
  
"You're welcome," he replies, surprised.   
  
"Also," she begins. "Could you call in sick for me? My secretary's six on the speed-dial."   
  
"You think that's any different from driving you home?!" Wesley exclaims, backing away.   
  
"Oh, come on, Wesley!" Lilah's had enough. Her head is fucking _killing_ her, and she's really not asking for anything that would make or break a world here. "Everyone knows about us. What's the big deal if you just call up little Marianne and tell her Ms. Morgan's taking a sick day?"   
  
"Because she'll think," Wesley hisses, "that we're having sex!"   
  
"We are having sex! And stop screaming, that hurts."   
  
"I thought nothing hurt you," he says meanly.   
  
Lilah rolls her eyes under closed eyelids, then yelps at the extra stab of pain it causes. "Fucking hell..." she mutters, words a little slurred. "Wesley, aren't you supposed to be one of the good guys? Here I am, little lady in pain, asking you to do me a favor that requires zero effort, and you're yelling at me."   
  
"Where's your phone?" he asks tiredly, then realizes a moment later that he knows. They've been playing at this game of one-night stands for months; how could he not know where she reaches? That night table changes her: she is charming and beautiful and playfully feline until she touches it, until she slinks off to do Wolfram & Hart's evil bidding, until she remembers herself and the claim to wickedness that she holds so dear.   
  
Wesley presses two fingers to his temple, where the ghost of a matching headache has lingered for weeks. "Ibuprofen's on the kitchen counter, by the way."   
  
"I know," Lilah breathes, nearly asleep again. "I took some a few hours ago."   
  
"Um. All right. Feel better," he says awkwardly.   
  
"Bye, Wes," she mumbles faintly into the pillow.   
  
He stares at her for a moment before closing the door. This dangerous woman, this spiteful, barbed woman-- and it does not even occur to him that this would be the perfect opportunity to kill her.   
  
"Goodbye, Lilah."   
  
Is he slipping into some ambiguous side, neither good nor evil; or is she?   
  
*   
  
It is nearly dark when he returns. Lilah's sitting on his couch, drinking tea from one of the china cups he used to keep at the Hyperion. A soft Chopin record is playing quietly in the background.   
  
She still looks sharp, sharp: all sharp edges, the kind he's going to snag himself on if he's not very careful. Yet she's also wearing his old, ratty bathrobe with no makeup on her face, and if he could forget everything he knows about her, she'd seem like just another worn-out woman disappointed with life, wrapping herself in excuses and other blurry things, trying to pad out the robe he didn't give her.   
  
"Honey, I'm home," Wesley says dryly; and Lilah looks up and smiles.   
  
  
END   
  



End file.
